


Blood upon sand, dream within us

by emocsibe



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spartacus (TV) Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emma's a badass, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam and Emma appear as well for a few lines, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: Goodnight stands upon the sand and wishes for a death he is too afraid to take for himself, with a freedom that still bloodies his hands.Billy stands upon the sand, neck bearing the collar of a slave, and wishes for freedom he has no means to obtain on his own.





	Blood upon sand, dream within us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Magnificent Seven Reverse Big Bang; based on the beautiful artwork done by the super-talented Vati (https://whereverigobillygoes.tumblr.com).

The sun is hot, the sand burns his eyes when the warm wind snatches up the loose grains and blews it into his eyes, but it is not these that disturb him. It is the scent of blood and the stickiness on his fingers that makes him want to double over and retch and vomit, but he steels himself and stands. Then he walks and he wishes he could walk until the ground disappears from beneath his feet.

When Goodnight finally leaves the sand-covered ring, his vision blurs with every second step, white patches entering his line of sight although he knows that the hallway he’s walking in is dark, only lit by a few torches, so nothing so obscenely and frivolously white has any right to appear. It’s blinding and it is making his head hurt. His ears brim with the noise of the crowd, although he’s sure he is already too far away from it all. He leans against the wall and breathes in the stale air, one hand clutching at his chest as if to press his heart into stillness. He wishes it were that easy. He wishes he were able to stand on the sand as a participant and not as an executioner, but his freedom had a cursed price to pay. He is a free man. He is – he tells himself whenever the senator calls him to one of the matches – he is as free as he can get. He ends lives already over, he ends lives that are nothing more than tools in the hands of the rich and mighty. He ends his own life in silence, too, seeing too much red and hearing too much pain. After the soldier years, the arena days, after fighting for this illusion ofnight freedom, he is a dying man with pain in his bones. He craves death and resents dying – and isn’t that a funny little situation there. 

“You aren’t well” comes the sound of someone and Goodnight looks up from staring at the ground, and for a moment, he thinks he’s already having one of his weird, blood-edged dreams. Although, this time, fate is good and merciful – there is a man in front of him, same height as him, but with a more slender build. He is clothed in white, but this time it doesn’t hurt Goodnight’s eyes, no – it’s a wonderfully crafted cloth covering the man from shoulder to knees. Goodnight thinks, he must be rich, must be someone to allow this kind of clothes, and then he raises his head to really look at the face of this man, and his breath is taken away. The man has long, deep-black hair, even longer than what some of the gladiators are growing, but that is not what catches Goodnight off-guard. It’s the collar around his neck – delicate work, pure leather and not metal, and yet it twists something ugly in Goodnight’s chest. 

“I am” he forces out a reply and shakes his head, his greying hair remaining stuck to his sweaty face regardless of the motion. “Who are you?”

“No one” says the man, and Goodnight can see it on his face that he isn’t lying. He must really think so.

“You’re too beautiful to be no one” Goodnight breathes as the hallway sways with every painfully fast and sharp beat of his heart. There’s a shocked silence and his own ragged, wheezing breath in the wake of his confession, the face of the other man standing next to him swimming in and out of his focus. It is nauseating, really, but he’s kind of used to his episodes – he’s not used to having audience for them, though. It is strange to have someone stand next to him, someone who isn’t laughing or mocking him for his weakness. 

The man just stands there and stares, his dark eyes dull and uncaring, his mouth set in a neutral line. Goodnight cannot read him at all, he thinks, but he’s oddly thankful for the silence and motionlessness of the other. He closes his eyes and dumps his head against the wall as he staggers backwards, the echoing cries too loud in his ear and in his head, the smell of blood too evident in his nose and mouth. He can practically taste it, and he hates it with his whole soul. 

Minutes pass and when Goodnight looks up, there’s the man in white, sitting at the other wall, just across from him. He hasn’t gotten closer but he hasn’t left either and Goodnight is so thankful for the second, and maybe even more so for the first – he dislikes to be touched when his skin gets too hot to bear and too tight to feel comfortable in it. He hates the heat and the anger that bubbles up in his chest and constricts his throat but well, that is what life has dealt him, right? And somehow this man, this elegant and kind man, didn’t make fun of him, didn’t touch him and didn’t leave him, and it is the most kindness Goodnight have been offered in a long time. He tries to plaster a weak smile onto his face and he think he manages it alright, but then the man in white just scoffs and turns his head to hide a small grin. 

“Don’t force it. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Can you go home now?”

“Heh, home” Goodnight wheezes and this time his laugh is free but pained, weighed down by the resentment he feels towards that empty shed in the town that is not a home, but a place where he feels the most alone. 

“Do you have one? Or a place to stay tonight?” 

The man’s voice is low, and he seems to be patient even when it takes Goodnight long minutes to scrape together a reply and tell him where that rotten shed of a house is. He only realizes that he is being led out of the arena by the other when they are past the main gate, and for a moment that collar around the man’s neck makes his chest fill with worry. What if his master will punish him for disappearing? He would not stand for anyone getting hurt for helping him, no, never - for such a detestable man as he himself, no one should ever suffer. 

“Will you get in trouble for this?” he asks, and his stomach quivers at the thought and he tries to steady himself on his suddenly even more unstable feet. 

“No. I can go around freely after my duties are carried out. We shall be there soon. Try to breathe deep and if you want, close your eyes.”

Goodnight doesn’t trust easily, but now he is too tired and too wrung out to stick to his lack of trust, so he goes along with the nameless man, closes his eyes and tries to force his headache out of his head. It comes as no surprise when he doesn’t succeed, and according to the small and amused huff of breath coming from his companion, his bitter cursing that follows is also anticipated. Heh, well, it’s not like he cares much about what people think of him - once upon a time he did, but now? Now the only thing he thinks worthy enough of his time is getting drunk after a fight, preferably in the corner of his little shed, as far from the others as humanly possible. Sometimes he starts drinking with the hope that drunk Goodnight will do something sober Goodnight fears to carry out. Sometimes he hopes he will wake up in a different state of mind, but more times than not he hopes he will not wake at all. This is his life now, and he hates it.

The arm around his waist that keeps him steady as they walk down the street seems nice, though. It is strong and secure, keeps him walking without wobbling around or tripping over his own feet and it is such a nice change from his usual trips back from the arena - he smiles and he has half an inkling that it must look pathetic at best but for once, he feels like smiling and he welcomes the urge. Now that he is calmer, now all this contact seems bearable, grounding rather than alarming, and he is really thankful for that. He knows that if he had to endure the same touch while trapped in his fears and thoughts without an exit, he might not have been able to walk like this. Maybe he would have even hurt the other for helping, and that thought makes his skin itch. 

The nameless man doesn’t talk, but his hand tightens on Goodnight’s right one that is slung over his shoulders whenever they pass by someone louder and rowdier and Goodnight finches, and that feels… it doesn’t feel bad. With his aversion to touches, especially when in such a nerved out state, it is truly surprising, but not unwelcome at all - it’s surely a change, a sudden one, but hell, does Goodnight wish for more of this comfort, this warmth, this stability. Unconsciously he rests more of his weight against the man next to him, and he is delighted when the man draws his waist closer and digs his fingers into his clothes. He sighs and points to one of the more run-down doors in one of the side streets they are just about to pass. 

“That’s that. It’s disgusting, but feel free to come in.”

“I need to get back soon. Will you be alright?”

“Heh, of course I will.” Of course he will be just as miserable as before, but that’s on him, no need to bother others with it. Just smile and nod and when the nice man is gone, drink up all the alcohol that is left in the jugs, and fall into his dusty bed to find a few hours of blessed unconsciousness. 

The man shakes his head but doesn’t voice if he has any doubts, and Goodnight is okay with that. 

“Thanks for the help” he says, and claps the nameless on his shoulder. For a second, he lets his fingers linger on the soft, white fabric before retreating it. His dirty fingers don’t belong there. 

“Take care” he is told and the nameless man leaves, and with him goes Goodnight’s newfound desire for happiness. He drinks and sleeps and maybe he even dreams, but the only memory that greets him the next day is that of silky black hair, a deep gaze and strong arms keeping him steady. His heart sinks and he drinks more. 

***

Time goes on after that, time filled with bloodshed upon the sand and nothing to soothe Goodnight’s aching soul. Sometimes flashes of that beautiful man in white return to him, his mind conjuring up images of the man smiling – bright and sarcastic and coy ones – but it only makes his chest hurt more. He’s lonely. And after realising this, after putting a name to what has been ailing him for too long, it somehow stings even more with every breath taken; for who would want him, who would ever look at his greying hair and trembling hands, and say, “this is the man I want”? Not a single soul, that’s who, he thinks, especially not one as graceful and breathtaking as the yet nameless man. “No one” he said he was, and Goodnight still cannot believe it. No-ones are people like Goodnight, people who are easy to forget and who are just as alone in the world as he is. That man, however, he is most certainly someone of importance, someone people would love at first sight and wish for a second meeting – exactly as Goodnight does in his waking hours and in his dreams as well. He has to wonder if he’ll ever get the chance to hold his hand and tell him how he has him enchanted. There are people with pretty bodies who make Goodnight want them for a night, who make him want to love their bodies but let them go after that. With this person – with him, Goodnight would like to talk and take walks side-by-side at the marketplace, sit down in those far-away fields that bloom early in the spring. He’d like to lay his head on that finery-covered chest and look at the stars and comb his hair, weave flowers in it. He wants to get to know him – soul and body alike, words and wishes, past and future. 

***

There’s a sword in his hand and his fingers shake - but the audience is far away, they don’t see it, they don’t know it, and thus it’s all good, it can shake and he can tremble and sweat in the merciless arena. The man in front of him is in his thirties, a good age for a fighter, extremely good, and yet he’s down on his knees and his head is held up with a defiance that tells Goodnight all he needs to know. The man is tired - and oh, for all the gods, hasn’t Goodnight himself felt what he must be feeling now? - and he is welcoming the possibility of death with such a sweet smile, one would think he’s waiting for a lover to return to him. Maybe - maybe death would bring that, too, for him; after all, who knows how he became a slave? A gladiator who is driven enough to survive against all odds is rare, but heartbreak in their lives isn’t. Many of the gladiators Goodnight have talked to or knew about had their lovers or families taken away, forced into slavery or killed - maybe this one also has a family waiting for him in the afterlife. 

For a moment Goodnight thinks the man is lucky if that’s true.

In the next one the dominus seated high above the filthy sand signals to him, his thumb pointing towards the blood-hungry soil, and Goodnight becomes truly envious. The man is free to go - but how will he himself leave? Too much of a coward still, too afraid to slice open his own neck, too wistful to live - how the gods have no mercy over his conflicting desires and his poor soul.

He finishes the kill fast, and the man, whose name was shouted with elation and hatred alike during the day and whose name, in the end, became nothing, dies with a smile on his lips. Goodnight feels the arena tilt, the air thicken, and his heart lurch in pain. His heavy steps on the red sand make no noise, although even if they did, the loud cheering and shouting from the excited crowd would shroud them. He walks and walks and before he knows where he’s going, he finds himself at a gate that is sealed for today, and he watches as the next gladiators step onto the sand. The fact that the corpses, previously strewn round the sand, are already elsewhere, tells him that he walked for a long time without any awareness of the world around him, making him question if his sanity is even more ragged than he has thought. 

He rests his forehead against the metal grid and watches, for if he moves he is afraid he would collapse - and thus, he watches the upcoming match. 

The first man to step forward wields a blade that is rusty and a shield that has too many holes in it to be any kind of real protection against spears, but it might hold together if the opponent only slashes at it with a sword. All in all, he is the usual gladiator that is sent here to die an amusing death amidst cheeers and five minutes of fame. The opponent, however, he is something else completely. He wears a white robe over trousers that seem fine even from the distance separating him from Goodnight, and in his hands there are two short swords, daggers rather - and just like the clothes, these also seem to be expensive. 

A murmur runs through the crowd at the sight, since no master would let his gladiator set foot upon the sand in such finery, with such exquisite weapons! What if he dies, what if his garments get torn? What if the opponent breaks the blades? 

But it seems that the master of this one has no such qualms - the gladiator is there, in his finery, and Goodnight wishes for him to turn around, he wants to see a face - if the man is old or young, if he has seen him already. There is something in him that draws Goodnight’s gaze towards his form, and as the fight starts, Goodnight finds himself unable to look away. It is magnificent how the man fights, long black hair flowing around his head as he ducks and lunges and jumps away. 

Goodnight has seen many a fights, seen many victories and even more defeats, so he can usually judge how a match will end if there are no hidden talents brought forth during the match. He knows that the finery-clad man is going to win. This far, he has no wounds upon himself, hasn’t even been touched by his opponent or his weapon. He dodges and slashes back, and as a proof to his talents, his opponent is already covered in blood and shallow gashes that only anger the other man, but aren’t enough to kill him. The opponent is being measured, Goodnight realises, his talents and his abilities mapped out with each careful step and twist of the twin blades. The man in the white robes knows how to survive, knows how to keep his head cool and his emotions in check - something rare in the arena. Goodnight watches and in his heart there is a fear of having to go back and finish this one, too - that would be a waste. This man seems too talented to be killed outside of a fair fight. 

They clash again, two daggers capturing the rusty blade and for a deadly moment it seems that the man in finery cannot dodge away from the shield that is aimed to bash his head in, and the blood in Goodnight’s veins stills. But then, with a twist to the side and a little push against the sword, the finery-clad man wrenches both sword and arm to the side, avoiding the shield and making a clear opening towards the other gladiator’s chest. A heartbeat later, there is a dagger embedded in his opponent’s heart, and that is one of the most considerate kills Goodnight has seen upon the sand of the arena. It must have been a quick and relatively painless death, and Goodnight gives way to a strange feeling that comes as close to relief as it can - for witnessing such a decent act is rare, even more so among those who only wish to survive or gain their freedom. This man must have his humanity still embraced, and Goodnight almost plasters his whole face against the grid of the gate. He must exchange words with him, he absolutely must - he wants to see the gladiator with a spark of compassion in him, wants to talk to him and maybe, maybe regain a bit of trust in people around him. 

His legs take him to the main gate where the gladiators enter and leave, and based on the crowd’s cheer he is completely sure that his services won’t be needed today. The crowd loves a fancy fighter, and the ones in power always love to have their audience sated and ready to witness more, so the new gladiator’s life should be in no danger. 

As he is nearing the main gate, Goodnight ponders over what is it that he wishes to say, if what he wants to convey can be translated into words, and he finds himself nervous, but strangely enough, it is not a blood-freezing, terror-wrought nervousness like he usually gets, but more like the anticipation before meeting with an old friend. At that stray thought, Goodnight has to scoff - he has ever had one good friend, one that proved to be a true brother to him, and life has taken him away from Goodnight. Where he is now, what has become of him, Goodnight has no idea, but he knows that if one day they reunite, they will continue where they left off, and they shall be brothers again. But to have the same feeling towards someone who is not an acquaintance or a friend, the same drive to meet - it is unfamiliar and frightening, for how deep he must have fallen to be this happy from seeing someone act as a proper human being in a situation like this? How low has his standards have sunk to see a bit of mercy as something this extraordinary that pulls him closer and closer? 

By the time the man walks into the cool corridor, Goodnight manages to collect himself, although the proper words to say to the man still elude him. He settles for a greeting and hopes that whatever words he deems sufficient will lead to a conversation, a few minutes of blessed companionship within these doomed walls. 

What he sees when he turns is not what he expects. 

The man who fought so well, the man who was merciful, the man whose actions and moves captivated him is the same man whose kindness and beauty twisted at his heart months ago. He is still wearing a collar, one even more intricate and hateful than the last, and his white robes are still clean, not a speck of blood in sight. His face in passive, but upon seeing Goodnight, his lips twist into a minute smile. 

“It’s you…” Goodnight breathes, and the man nods at him.

“Yeah” he says and walks further away from the sand, the killing and the crowd without a glance backwards, eyes trained on Goodnight who follows without a word. “You look surprised.”

“I’ve never considered… I’d have never thought you were a gladiator. But here you are, fighting like a god, charming the audience left and right...”

“If you have given thought to it, tell me, what did you think I was?” the man asks, and his eyes are alight with both playfulness and barely-there resignation which confuses Goodnight.

“I thought you must be a body slave, maybe a head of house… Your dress was finer than anything I’ve ever seen on a slave and you carried yourself with grace. But you being a fighter would explains the latter.”

“Most people think I’m a _ concubinus _ who fits my master’s weird tastes, so your unique assumptions are most welcome and flattering.” The man’s face twists a bit with something akin to disgust, and Goodnight understands why. 

“Heh, I’m happy then that it was a welcome mistake on my part. And… I have seen many slaves who were required to offer up their bodies to their masters or to others and their eyes… Yours look different” Goodnight adds, and shivers at the memories from when he was a soldier, from when he was wasting away his life on the sand, all the people who broke under the weight of a fancy collar and the demands of insatiable, cruel people. 

“He’s a pig, but he dares not to gamble with his life or his dick. He knows I’d take both if he let himself too close to me. As things are now, he’s careful to never be with me alone, there are guards every time he talks to me. I like it. And I hate him.”

They reach the gate that leads outside of the arena, and Goodnight stops, his fingers worrying the worn fabric of his skirt as he turns towards the other man.

“I’m Goodnight, by the way. I must have come across very impolite for not introducing myself, and I’m sorry for that. May I ask what name do you go by?”

The man leans against the wall and crosses his arms in front of his chest, his eyes set on Goodnight’s face as if he was looking for something there.

“You realise you're talking to a slave? No one gives a shit about being polite to any of us.”

“I do. My mama raised a polite son, or so I’d like to think, you know? And I wish to know such a formidable fighter’s name if he’s willing to share it with me.”

“He’s willing. My name is Billy” the man says, shrugs and starts walking down the same road they took last time, and Goodnight is all too happy to catch up with him and draw him into a casual discussion about whatever crosses his mind at the moment. He is relaxed, happiness fills him because he has a name now, and the man himself is walking next to Goodnight and talking to him in that deep, warm voice of his. 

They find a tavern and get a few drinks, then proceed to walk as far away from the crowd as they can. The place they settle at is nice and devoid of people, a little street between run-down houses, filled with dust and a few pieces of rotten fruit, but for them, it is perfect in its emptiness. They sit and talk, and from the lighter topics they get to heavy ones in the course of an hour, but the mood never shifts from the original easiness between them. Goodnight tells Billy how he fought in the army, how he used to be proud of it, and then life and death happened and he got disgusted and left to live a life away from the pointless killing. But then the prospect of an easy and fast death lured him onto the sand, and even though he only fought in a few select matches, those days will be always ones he remembers with fondness and hatred in equal measures. He tells Billy of Sam, of a man who saved his life when he wanted it to be forfeit, and their friendship that was severed when Sam was taken elsewhere without notice. 

In return, Goodnight listens to Billy’s tales of a life spent as a slave, one that was not just a fighter but a statement in his fine robes and shackles - and when Goodnight takes hold of Billy’s hand after the man is done talking about his disgusting master, Billy lets him and folds his own fingers around the comforting hand. Once Billy starts talking, it continues on and on, clear as day that he has no one he could confide in and tell what ails him, and Goodnight is all too willing to lend a pair of ears and the comfort of company. 

Somehow, the drink they brought gets forgotten on the grimy ground in between their stories, but neither mind it when they discover the full jar later on. They laugh and agree that as soon as Billy can, he will visit. A warm smile later they go their separate ways with their souls content and their spirits high. 

***

As the weeks grow into long months, after they settle into a nice routine of drinking together, talking about their lives and forgetting their burdens for a few flimsy hours, after life seems to turn a bit brighter in Goodnight’s heart, it all turns into a nightmare. 

Billy has been complaining about how he is given finery and treats, but all he wishes for is freedom, to be able to walk away from the city, to know that there are no people tailing him whenever he steps outside of the arena after his fights. He tells Goodnight how he dreams of having a small house somewhere far away from people, somewhere calm and beautiful, with flowers that smell like his childhood home. Goodnight tries to console him, but it seems that as time deepens the wound in Billy’s chest, as it festers without the hope for his wish to ever be fulfilled, his words can no longer calm his friend. On some days, Goodnight is not even sure that his voice reaches Billy, or that his company is truly appreciated. But this is Billy, and Billy has become a treasured friend, one that Goodnight would never leave to his sorrow to deal with it alone. So he prevails, withstands the storm that is an angry Billy, his words that are filled with hurt and pain and longing, and Goodnight knows that he can do nothing to help him aside from lending an ear. 

If he had the means, he would pay for Billy’s freedom in a heartbeat - but he is as far from being able to do that as Billy himself. He counts again and again, and it always comes back to the same result: if he completely stopped spending money on food and medicine, even then he would have to wait for decades to gather the money Billy’s master would accept in exchange of his best fighter. 

A silent, stormy night finds them in Goodnight’s little shack of a house, and Billy is too tired to sit properly, too tired to talk, so he just sits on that creaking, dusty bed, slumped against Goodnight’s chest, and listens to the steady heartbeat. 

“I’m glad you’re no longer a gladiator. I’d hate to fight with you” he says, and Goodnight feels his throat constrict for a moment. He hums in response, and knows that Billy will wait and won’t rush him to answer in words, he will wait for him to be able to form those godsdamned sentences that are stuck in his lungs now. He loves this about Billy, this understanding of how he works, of how his demons make everyday things like speech difficult from time to time. He can be charming with his words, can form sentences long enough to get an unsuspecting vendor to drop their price on whatever he intends to buy - at least, on his better days. But there are instances when he is like this, silent and contemplative, where he hums and shakes his head and tries his best to get some fleeting voices into the proper shapes of words. And Billy always waits and waits and Goodnight not only loves this about Billy, but he loves Billy. Everything about him. He loves Billy and seeing him hurt hurts him as well. 

“I’d let you win, you know that” he says finally, and cradles the man closer, fingers spread as if he wanted to shield him from the world. 

“That would be a sight to see, a stalemate between two warriors, without a single weapon raised” Billy answers in kind, and Goodnight forgets how to breathe for a second. That Billy would suggest such a thing… He should never think of not raising his daggers, he should always think about how to win, how to survive - even if his victory meant Goodnight’s death. But today, no one is dying and Goodnight is perfectly fine with that. 

Today there’s only warmth coming from the body leaning against his, today there’s only a silent understanding and Goodnight locks this feeling deep into his heart. 

***

Then change comes, it throws down the walls and shatters the peace - Billy hates the life he is forced to lead, hates the pretence and the pointless killing, hates how if they went out of Goody’s house, they’d find at least four slaves his master sends after him time and time again. When he snaps, when one of Billy’s daggers find its way to his own throat, Goodnight cannot take it anymore. He holds Billy as secure in his arms as he can, throws away the weapon and tells him of a plan, of a weak, weak plan - and Billy listens. Goodnight talks of freedom and Billy drinks up each and every word, soaks up the promise and the hope and after that first night spent with planning and plotting, he kisses Goodnight.

Goodnight doesn’t dream that night only because sleep eludes him.

The next night, however, nightmares find him.

He knows what getting Billy free might cost him.

He is willing to pay.

***

They are sitting in the soft grass, and Goodnight knows that whatever happens, this is their goodbye. Whether Billy gets the freedom he deserves, or gets taken back to his master, they will never meet again - Goodnight knows that Billy is tough, but he himself isn’t. He will break if they catch him, he knows, but with Billy gone… Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst.

He lets himself indulge in another last moment of weakness as he runs his gaze over his friend, and sighs. Gone is the pristine white robe, the exquisite bracers and the expensive daggers. What Billy is wearing is a common attire for fighters, a sand-coloured cloth, dirty boots, cheap pauldron and leather bracers, and unassuming but sharp knives. He will not be recognised without that damned collar around his neck, but he is still wearing it, still not moving, still waiting and it is killing Goodnight. 

“The collar doesn’t suit you at all” he says and with a dagger of his own, he cuts the cords keeping the collar tied together and for a moment he entertains the idea of kissing the slightly reddened skin, but he has no time for that. The six men Billy’s master has sent out to watch his favourite fighter that day come closer and start talking, asking question after question, then they draw their swords and hack at Billy, and the bloodbath begins. He sees the wounds on his own body rather than feels them, but since he sees no blood on Billy, he cares not. If this is the price, he is still willing to pay it. 

Goodnight bleeds and his vision blurs and his legs give up and he crumbles to the ground, and after that his head starts buzzing with rage and sadness. It is dark and calm, but something is tugging at his mind, something that sounds like his name, an echo of a lovely voice he knows he will not hear anymore.

The next thing he remembers is the stench of blood, spilled from the ones that were supposed to watch over Billy. They are all dead, his friend is nowhere in sight, and Goodnight realises that it’s already late, the setting sun painting the bloodied ground even more aggressively red. The realisation that he is alive comes later on, when he is being dragged back by unfamiliar people to somewhere where he blacks out completely. 

***

For a few days, he is thought to be a noble fighter who tried to aid the servants in their fight against Billy. He is thanked by Billy’s master, but is told later on that he will have to share the fame and gratitude with another servant, who is still fighting for his life. Goodnight hopes he will die.

***

The man survives and he talks before Goodnight could silence him forever.

***

The collar Goodnight is given is far from the soft leather of Billy’s - it is unforgiving metal, but it still weighs less than the dreams which he cannot stay in, than reality that is painful now and lonely, and smells like cursed blood and sand.

***

A year passes and he still lives, and he is no longer willing to ask himself why is that so. His smiles are all gone, and his nightmares feel like a welcome change from his waking life. Sometimes he recalls a bright smile, deep dark eyes and a kiss that felt like a promise.

***

There are men in armour lined up – those who were unwilling to fight or unable to handle the quick and efficient methods of the rebels, caught by the storm that was Sam and his group. Billy is barely done with dragging a young man to the courtyard when there is laughter from the side. It’s so sudden and loud that he looks there in annoyance, and he finds one of the new recruits, the one with just one eye remaining, and he freezes. There is a gladiator in a soldier’s armour, already greying hair sticking to his forehead, even though he must not be old enough to warrant the change to his otherwise dark hair. It is the burden of a peaceful man forced to kill. He knows this face, Billy thinks, and knows these haunted, pale-blue eyes that are getting more and more evident as he forces the young man in his grasp to go closer. As he arrives, the laughter lessens but it doesn’t cease completely. 

The man with the eye missing looks at him and flashes a cruel smile, pointing at the soldier in front of them all. Billy follows the motion and takes in the form of the familiar man, the shaking, pale hands and the short, panicked rising of his chest, and he knows who this is, knows who this isn’t. 

He tosses the young man he’s still clutching at to someone on his right, and shows away the half-eyed man with annoyance rising in his stomach. The gladiator in front of him reacts to his presence only with a flinch and a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t even try to run or hide, or protect himself in any ways. Yes, it truly is him from his past, Billy thinks, that self-sacrificing, death-craving man who helped him escape and whom Billy thought dead. He looks worse for wear, but not too much, Billy notes as he lets his eyes roam over the whole man. 

“Goodnight” he calls out as the name flashes through his mind, buried under a sea of memories he has tried to forget, but it bubbles up freely, almost with a relieved aftertaste in his mouth. 

“Goodnight” he repeats and puts his hands on the soldier’s shoulder, then on his cheeks as he gets no reaction. But that, the direct contact, the soft, unthreatening way his palms warm up Goodnight’s face, that gets the man to look at him. There is no recognition in his eyes, only fear and confusion, and Billy feels bad. He usually refuses to ponder on the past, on what-ifs, because they would bury him alive if he let them overwhelm him – but now, now he lets one tiny what-if slip through the gates of his mind. What if he had realised Goodnight was alive and brought him to freedom with himself? What if the man got out of that life so unsuited for him? 

He leans forward and brings Goodnight’s forehead against his own, eyes slipping closed as he threads his fingers in the other’s hair.

“Breathe, Goodnight” he says, and cares not about the sudden silence that has exchanged the crude laughter. He only cares about the man he was once in love with, the one that made it possible for him to live instead of committing the greatest – and most probably, the last – mistake of his life. 

“Goody” he kisses the word onto the man’s forehead, and brings Goodnight’s head to rest on his shoulder. It is tender and his fingers sweeping through Goodnight’s matted hair are soft, and he feels his heart cry out. Maybe he could have had it all this time. 

He shouts for the keys, and when he lifts the collar off of a scarred neck, something heavy settles into his chest. 

Goodnight doesn’t speak a word.

***

Convincing the rebels to leave the man alone is easy, even more so after Sam takes a single look at the still shaking and shaken man and declares that this person is his good friend and brother, and if anyone dares to think about harming him, they will have to get through him first. Billy is happy to see how Goodnight still has a friend, someone to care about him, but there is also a creeping, tearing sensation in his chest and a mad little voice in his head that tells him about all the wasted years and opportunities, about all the suffering Goodnight must have gone through. He clears Goodnight’s sweat-soaked skin after getting him to a room in the building that he claims as his, and swallows his pleas of forgiveness when his fingers guide the quickly dirtying rag over raised skin and red welts and cuts, trying to focus on the here and now. 

The here and now is far from good, he knows, with the promise of an attack lingering over their head, but he knows that Sam and Emma are capable leaders, and will do their utmost to figure out something. He has put his own life in their hand when he joined them, joined their fight and their family, and now Goodnight is back amongst the living, with him, and Billy is happy.

***

Billy doesn’t walk around the room in circles he and the still sleeping Goodnight occupies, but it’s a very close thing. He’s worried, he’s halfway lost between memories he kept repressed until now and a fear of the future he never had before. Before, there wasn’t a future in front of his eyes to ponder about, but now, with how successful their rebellion seems to be, now he has to consider things. First of all, what if he survives the coming battles? (He doesn’t think about dying. There will be ne further problems for him should he die and that is, in itself, a huge comfort for him.) Now, another question tries to wiggle itself into his mind, treacherously whispering, “What if Goodnight survives, too?”

He has no answers to either, but there’s a dream lurking barely hidden under more important thoughts, a dream of a small house and a garden, and flowers he told Goodnight about. He imagines Goodnight amongst those flowers, all colourful and fragrant, and a smile on this haggard face that seemingly lost the ability to show happiness. 

His fingers flinch and he casts his head down - there’s a weight upon his mind and upon his heart and he wonders about the past, once again, and he hates it. Goodnight was… He looked dead. People were approaching. Billy wanted to be free and free he became - and Goodnight earned himself a collar in exchange. 

Now, now Billy sits on the bed and takes Goodnight’s hand in his and brings it to his lips and kisses his gratitude onto scarred fingers and raw-rubbed palms and hopes. 

He hopes for Goodnight to wake, to forgive - to forget and to live, and Billy knows that even if the first two can be managed, the last ones are the toughest tasks one can take on themselves. He remembers leaving and being free for the first time in decades, and he remembers how hard it was. Not freedom - that’s never too heavy upon his shoulders, no, but the feeling of being alone, that was… Loneliness and freedom shouldn’t go hand in hand, and he promises, with Goodnight’s hand still in his hold, that if his friend wakes, he will be there for him to guide him into the first smiles and first laughters, the first breaths he takes as a free man. 

***

Goodnight wakes and he is so uncharacteristically silent that it hurts. Billy is used to his voice, to words finely crafted and sentences intricately woven, words chipped and sentences reduced to half murmurs - both would calm him now, but he gets neither.

What he gets is a man devoid of life and still as a cracked marble statue, his eyes dulled into acceptance and obedience. Billy would like to lie to himself and say that once he thought Goodnight to be unbreakable - but he never knew anything but an already broken man, stitched together with rare laughs and alcohol, still breaking and breaking along invisible lines. He’d like to think that breaking him to this extent was something that was hard, that it took a lot of time, but he knows better. To get Goodnight to this point, it must have been easy, too easy for such monsters that reside in fine homes like the one they are in right now.

Billy swears, later on, as he is trying to feed small sips of watered broth to the still shaking and pale man, that no matter what it takes, no matter how long he shall be at it, he will take Goodnight far from this whole mess once they are no longer hunted and killed like prey. He will build that house and plant the flowers and thank Goodnight for being his saviour all those years ago. 

***

Change comes in small steps, but Billy is like a proud parent watching them form long miles worth of progress. He smiles and swallows down his tears and shuts all the remorse in his heart in a dark corner, and wakes up each dawn to celebrate another day where his friend - is he still allowed to call him that, he wonders, and he hopes, hopes, hopes -, where his friend is still beside him. Having Goodnight there, seeing him getting healthier, better with every day spent without a damned collar, that makes Billy’s vision of a future brighter, his resolve to fight for their freedom more and more solid. 

***

There’s a day when Goodnight pulls him close and drapes an arm over Billy’s shoulders as they are sitting on the steps, watching a few newly recruited men try their best to defeat Emma, one of the leaders of their group. Billy turns to him for a brief moment and offers a smile - he intends it to be no longer than a brief moment anyways, but when he looks back to the impromptu training field, Emma is the only one left standing, and the three men are on their asses, cursing at their defeat. Goodnight hums and turns to Billy with an unusual seriousness in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you also train? You said you’ll be fightin’ when the day comes, but you haven’t left my side in forever.”

Billy just shakes his head, and for a moment he lapses into a calculating silence.

“Will you train with me?”

He knows that Goodnight still has to fight down shivers and a bout of panic whenever one as much as draws a sword around him too suddenly, or when voices are raised in drunken haze, but Billy knows that if he wants to ensure his friend’s safety, he needs to guide Goodnight back to the path of a fighter. Even if he gets left behind when they are off to fight the romans, he will be vulnerable. If they lose the fight, even more so, and he wishes to make sure that Goodnight has the best chance at living, no matter how their rebellion ends. 

And for all this, he needs Goodnight to be able to hold a sword and fight, and not lose his grip on the world around himself. 

“Can we go somewhere else?” Goodnight asks, and Billy takes hold of the hand slung over his back, entwines their fingers, and nods. It will be a start.

***

Then, there’s a day when Billy is defeated, when Goodnight stands tall and proud on the soft grass and looks at Billy, who’s sprawled on the ground, daggers out of his hands, eyes shining with pride, and _ smiles _. 

Billy’s heart speeds up at the sight and he laughs and smiles as he pulls the other man down, smirks into a kiss freely given and merrily accepted.

***

There comes the day they have been waiting and preparing for, and they fight. Billy twirls his daggers and rips skin and flash and crushes bones and severs fates with lunges fuelled by hate and hope alike, and at his back there’s the man he wedded only a month ago, the man whose face is ashen and hands bloody and who still gathers the strength to fight. Death takes many people that day, romans and rebels alike, and once everything is over, once the romans retreat with their leader laying headless on the bloody ground, Billy takes a breath. He turns around and watches, watches as Goodnight also stands and breathes, half of his face one big gash that is bleeding, bleeding onto a tired but warm smile. It feels like the first breath of a new lifetime. 

***

Love, as Billy has come to realise, is no cure for the things that can ail a heart or soul, not by any means. Loving Goodnight still leaves the man trembling to consciousness after a vicious nightmare, and being loved by him will never chase away the distaste Billy feels towards the rich and mighty that buy and sell human lives as if they were simple pieces of meat. 

Loving and being loved, he finds, is no cure, but it can remedy a lot of things. With love, must come patience, and patience helps with the burdens they can’t shape into words, or with the days when everything seems to be too much. Love is also selfless and caring, and Billy knows that whenever he forgets to take care of himself, Goodnight will be there to do it for him, and he knows that he will do the same until the very day death tears him from his husband’s arms.

And up until then, up until that day they wish not to think about, they will continue to live and breathe the free air of a faraway land, where a house stands on a field filled with flowers and laughter - a home of two.

**Author's Note:**

> Things that didn't fit into the fic, but that I cling to nonetheless:  
\- Emma was the one to behead whoever was leading the roman army.  
\- Goodnight lost an eye in the battle.  
\- Sam visits sometimes and brings Red Harvest, too.  
\- Everyone from the main cast survived and are (somewhat) happy and free now.
> 
> Also I might change the title because I don't really like this one?


End file.
